Don't Ask Me
by ProjectManhattan
Summary: Shawn and Gus decide to take a vacation to Miami under Shawn's somewhat suspect motive of saving Lassiter from an assassin. While in the sunny Florida town, however, our pseudo-detectives run afoul of some very colorful characters. Burn Notice crossover.
1. Chapter 1

"Look, Spencer, you can take your bogus, paranoid theories elsewhere."

"These are not mere theories, Lassie! This is serious business! I have some hardcore psychic juju going down bigtime that says that you are in mortal danger, and-"

"Coincidences, Spencer! Nothing but coincidences. Don' t you think for a second that some faulty wiring or statistically probable gas leaks are gonna stop me from enacting justice on the filth that infests our fair city. I've faced worse during my time on the force and come out-"

"Guns blazing, yeah, yeah. But this was an explosion, Lassie! There was an explosion. In your home. When you were supposed to _be_ home! Need I remind you that if I hadn't flagged your vehicle down to make you try the most heinously delicious jerked chicken to ever grace the earth to determine if that fine a flavor was illegal, you'd be one smoked pollo yourself?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes and shoved Shawn and Gus towards the doorway. "Yes, Spencer, yes, thank you so much from saving me from nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do that involves me solving some real crimes and not chasing or channeling ghosts or spirits or whatever the hell it is you two do." Shawn opened his mouth to retort, but Lassiter slammed the door before he had the chance to do it to the man's face. Shawn retorted regardless.

"See if I ever try to save your sorry ass again, man! Just wait and see!"

--

A few minutes later, a rather dejected Shawn sighed and leaned against the wall outside of the Santa Barbera Police Department.

"Never seen someone so stubborn in my life." said Gus, standing next to him, staring back at the doorway. "Or ungrateful. He didn't even say thank you for the chicken, not to mention for savin' his butt. I can't blame you for what you said back there, Shawn."

Shawn sighed. "Dude, we've got to save his sorry ass."

"What?"

"Someone's trying to kill Lassiter, whether he wants to admit it or not."

"We've got no proof, Shawn. You know how this works. Even when its a civilian's life on the line, Lassiter needs solid, earthly evidence more than anyone. And when it's about him, he's even less likely to believe anything we throw at him, no matter how strong your vibes or whatever are."

"Well, yeah, maybe I don't know who did it, but that's the fifth time this month, man! Someone in this town is trying to kill him. Someone with the connections to get rat poison into his coffee at work, someone able to cut the breaks on his car and make it look like normal automotive wear and tear, and someone able to rig his house to blow up! Someone who can leave behind no evidence to point toward foul play despite these incidences piling up and making it clear that it cannot be anything but! I can't watch out for him all the time, man. They're gonna get to him eventually. There's got to be another way."

Gus shrugged. "It's probably just someone with a lot of connections who hates Lassiter. Seeing as how he's a hardass cop who loves his job with an expansive arrest record in a city riddled with crime, that list isn't too small."

"We can narrow this down, man. We have to do something!"

"It's hopeless, Shawn. All we really know is that we've got no time and that as long as Lassiter's here, he's a goner."

"Ha! Thanks, Gus! You're a genius!"

"Huh?"

"You just said it, man. We just have to get Lassiter out of here."

"What makes you think he'll leave Santa Barbara?"

"Remember when I first called in the tip that got me caught and started solving all of Lassiter's cases? How much he wanted to shoot me or arrest me or what have you?"

"Well, yeah, but... Shawn, I don' t like where this is going."

"Stop being such a wussypants! Anyway, all I have to do, well, all we have to do, is piss him off bigtime, preferably by perpetrating something illicit and or illegal that offends him to a great degree."

"I don't like this plan at all, Shawn!"

"I'm not even done yet!"

"I don't care!"

"Let me finish! See, we pull something big, then skip town, well, skip several towns, maybe a few dozen towns, until we've got him out of harm's way. You and both know that Lassiter's got this weird long arm of the law thing going on; he's sure to follow us wherever we go rather than let any local departments wherever we end up deal with us."

"There's gotta be another way, Shawn!"

"You just made it clear to me that if Lassiter stays here, he's dead!"

"Yeah, and we will be too we piss him off!"

"Relax with the hyperbole, my friend! At the very most we'll get twenty-five to life and a bullet wound or two. What's a trip to the emergency room and some time in the clink between friends? Gus, even if he's a creepily overachieving head detective, Lassiter can't handle this! We've got to do this, man. We're gonna do this. I'm thinking Eastern Seaboard, Gus. Philadelphia, Atlanta, Boston, Miami... Jules transferred here from the Miami PD, right? I like Miami. Let's go with Miami."

"Miami? That's clear across the country, Shawn!"

"Exactly! They're not gonna follow him all the way down there. Whoever they are, they're presistent enough to keep trying, but not enough to have nailed him yet. They don't have the drive and they don't have the manpower to follow us, Gus!"

"But _he's_ gonna follow us!"

"Exactly!"

"And he's gonna have that creepy I'm-gonna-get-you look on his face! And his cuffs, Shawn, those cold, cold metal handcuffs. This is bad news, Shawn!"

"Au contraire! This'll be easy. And possibly quite fun. We can set off a couple alarms while we're there, too, just to make sure he has more than just credit card records to follow us by. Ding a couple parking meters, maybe steal some colorful hats... It'll be a piece of cake! Delicious, moist..."

"What, Shawn? That doesn't even-"

"Come on, buddy! You can work on your tan."

"First of all, we live in Santa Barbara. Second of all, as you damn well know, I'm-"

"Words, words, words, Gus! All useless, pointless, and empty. I've made up my mind, man. We're doing this."

Shawn headed down the steps towards the parking lot.

"You just want an excuse to mess with Lassiter and get some background info on Juliet so you can pull your freaky psychic clairvoyant boyfriend crap!"

"Can't hear you, man, I'm too busy trying to do the right thing and save an innocent man's life."

"I've got a _real_ job, Shawn! You know I can't just pack up and- are those my keys?"

"Maybe."

"Is that Lassiter's car?"

"Why, yes, it is! And if you stay here, you'll get to be alone when you have to explain why 'GUS IS D MAN' is crudely engraved on his rear passenger door."

"I'm gonna kill you, Shawn!"

"Haha! Good times, man. Good times."


	2. Chapter 2

The only sounds to be heard were lawn sprinklers feebly attempting to compensate for the summer heat and the occasional child playing in the distance. The clear and quiet suburban Miami street was a rare blessing in the tacky seaside paradise, and the scene was filled with mid-afternoon Florida sun drifting through serenely swaying palm trees, scattering on the suburban asphalt and reflecting off of plastic pink garden flamingos and uncut grass.

Tranquility is inherently fleeting, however, and the calm silence was quickly interrupted by a black Charger zooming down the road at unholy speeds followed closely by a barreling cherry red sedan whose passengers were firing away at the vehicle ahead of them with a variety of automatic weapons. The Charger was driven by a nervous-looking middle-aged man in a Tommy Bahama shirt and jet-black sunglasses. His left hand was on the wheel, and his right held a secure grip on the belt looped around the waist of the thin woman situated half-in and half-out of the passenger side window, a woman evidently far too preoccupied with unloading her semi-automatic pistol on the following car to concern herself with seat belts and the like. Her left elbow rested on the car door, the right was extended and firing away, and her face showed an expression of pure enjoyment.

In the back of the Charger sat a fit man in a tan Armani suit and aviator sunglasses on his cell phone. He showed nothing more than agitation at the noise and had one hand plugging an ear and the other holding the phone close.

"You told me these were your guys, Marcello!" he said, his aggravation evident in his voice. "How do you expect me to get you out of this mess if you send me on a friendly mission into a damned lion's den?"

The woman in the front seat entered the car, dropped the empty gun in the floorboard, picked up another out of a black duffel bag, and returned to her position and her firing.

"What? That's a bad excuse, Marcello," he said, tapping his female friend on the leg and motioning for her to stop shooting and take a seat. "Well, if that's how it's gonna be, Marcello, that's how it's gonna be." He shook his head at the man on the other line, and hung up. "Guess that's it, then," he said, frowning "Thanks for wasting our time, jackass...". The man in the front looked up into the rear view mirror at his friend.

"That's it?"

"Yeah, Sam. Turns out Marcello Suslov's more concerned with helping his crime syndicate friends than with getting help from us. Well, after all this," he said, gesturing to the car close behind them, "it's either that or he never wanted our help in the first place. Hey, Fi, where's the, uh.."

The woman smiled, rolled her window up, and pulled a detonator out of her bag.

"That's it," said the man in the suit, smiling.

"The hell's that for?" asked the man in the front seat, lifting his sunglasses and glancing down and to the right at the detonator.

"What do you think?" asked the woman, pressing down hard on the trigger. The car following the three promptly exploded. The man driving jumped and yelled at the noise. The woman laughed, and the man in the back smiled. "Why didn't you two do that in the first place?" asked the driver, grimacing has he pulled a sharp right turn, trying to figure out the fastest route to get as far away from the scene of the incident as possible.

"I wanted to have confirmation first," said the man in the back, waving his cell phone. "Now that they're taken care of, I think it's time we discussed this little problem with Marcello face-to-face."

"Fine, Mikey. Whatever you say," said the man in the front, frowning and lowering his sunglasses back into their place. "Just don't pull that crap again, or I'll drive this friggin' Charger right over a damn cliff."


	3. Chapter 3

Shawn glanced, mesmerized, at a table stacked with day-old pastries on sale at half-price. He glanced around to make sure no associates were nearby, grabbed a box, climbed on top of the table, opened the box, devoured an éclair, and waved and made lewd gestures at the security camera before jumping back down. He proudly pulled off a clean landing, turned to Gus, and proffered the container.

"That's disgusting, Shawn."

"Actually, it was quite delicious. Curiously crunchy, but, ah-"

"I never took you for a thief, Shawn. I mean, I've known you my whole life, but I never noticed this creepy dark side you've got goin' on. Ever since we got to Miami, man, you've-"

"There's nothing morally reprehensible about eating ever-so-slightly stale pastries, my friend."

"There is if you wave your weird little ass around in front of a security camera and devour the poor things without paying a cent for them."

"Come now, Gus. Don't be an equilateral triangle of malcontent."

"Shawn, what does that even-"

"Don't question the wisdom of the phrase, Gus. Let it flow over you. Take it in."

"It doesn't make any sense. It doesn't make any sense at all. Don't you try to tell me that-"

"Take it in like a sponge, Gus. Take it in like a sea sponge. They're noble creatures, Gus, and-"

"You know what? _You _don't make any sense."

"Really? Is that... really, Gus? That's it?"

"Yes, Shawn! Really! You make less sense every day! I'm not even sure how you managed to drag me out here and risk everything that I've earned for- "

"For Lassiter."

"Don't pull that-"

"Hold that thought," said Shawn. He stared at the box for a moment, then quickly arranged the remainder of the éclairs and donuts into a small pyramid-shaped heap.

"What in the world are you-"

"It's a volcano, Gus. See, the box is the moat, and-"

Shawn paused mid-sentence. Gus raided his eyebrows. Shawn then motioned over his shoulder at a security guard. Gus shook his head with exasperation. Shawn thumbed toward the front of the store, and Gus reluctantly nodded.

They threaded their way through a few aisles of the supermarket, headed toward the checkout lines. Shawn glanced back and saw the guard examining the donut volcano and saying something into his walkie-talkie. The guard glanced around, put the walkie back in its holster, picked up a donut, and took a bite. Shawn laughed and turned to Gus, who was still frowning and angry.

After reaching the front, they paused at the doorway. Shawn returned back a few feet to the dollar DVD display near the front, grabbed five copies each of _Manos: Hands of Fate_ and _They Call Him Sasquatch_, and ran through the doors, setting off the security alarms. Gus laughed nervously at onlookers, then quickly followed.

Shawn threw the DVDs on the ground outside in a hurry, paused, backed up a few feet, and picked up a copy of _Manos_. The car was conveniently (and illegally) parked in the fire lane, so the two men easily hopped in. Gus started the ignition and pulled out.

"Now that that adventure is over," said Shawn, throwing the stolen DVD into the backseat of the car, "back to Lassiter. Look, man, I'm serious. I snuck on someone's laptop at that creepy pretentious internet cafe near the airport- "

"I hated that place."

"Yeah, me, too. Anyway, I got on yesterday and and checked _The Santa Barbara Independent Online _for any news of our escapades, and, man, we're making headlines."

"Headlines?" asked Gus, letting on his curiosity.

"Yeah. Right there on the website's main page- _'Sexy Smooth Psychic Surreptitiously Astounds Santa Barbara Law Enforcement, Escapes Scene Without A Sign Of_-'"

"Dammit, Shawn! There's no way that-"

"Okay, okay. _'Crazy Clairvoyant May Be Consumed With Contrition For His Acts of Contempt; Courageous Cop Carlton Contemplates Catching Of Contemporary Clyde For Cheeky Escapades Of_-'"

"Shawn!"

"Fine! _Sooome_body's in a bad mood."

Gus just stared straight ahead.

"Don't be like that. I mean, I'll admit, it wasn't a big article with a cool name, it wasn't even front page, but, man, there was an interview, and the chief was saying that while she was sure the whole thing was a big misunderstanding, she was taking full responsibility is sending her best men out to look for us."

"That's it? That, well, that doesn't sound _too_ bad... Hey, why didn't you tell me earlier, Shawn?"

"There may have also a picture of Lassiter with some caption or another about him being too enraged to comment, and, uh, he may have been standing next to his car... I'm not sure why he was so angry. I mean, a new paint job can't cost _that _much. Why, in this economy, I'm sure that car, uh, car painter dudes would happily-"

"Shawn, you stole a dozen sombreros, nailed them to his home, and spray-painted Spanish profanities on-"

"Correction, Señor Gustavo; _we_ stole a dozen sombreros and spray-painted his house. Well, a baker's dozen sombreros, actually. I, I couldn't help but keep one for myself. It's back there with the spray-paint cans and _Manos_."

"Manos?"

"Nothing, Gus. Nothing. Hey, losing the rent-a-cop back there and getting out of the place was easier than I'd thought it would be, but the éclair shenanigans earlier piqued my hunger. I'm in the mood for some cuisine Cubano, man. How about we head out to _El Calbareraro_?"

"What?"

"It's Spanish for 'place of delicious and exotic foodstuffs'."

"No, it's not!"

"It certainly is, Gus. And frankly, I'm offended that you would even think to suggest otherwise."

"No, Shawn. In fact, I'm fairly certain that it's not a word in any language."

"Whatever, man. Let's just find a place to eat."

"Fine, Shawn. Fine."


	4. Chapter 4

"This guy," said the middle-aged man looking through a set of binoculars, "is an _idiot_."

The three partners were on the upper deck of a dilapidated and long-unused parking lot overlooking a bustling city street. A handful of stories down and on the opposite side of said street was a trendy Cuban café that apparently housed the individual to whom they were referring.

"He tried to cross Michael," said the woman matter-of-factly. "Of course he's an idiot."

"Fiona," said the younger man, stepping in between the two and on some overgrown weeds jutting out from between cracks in the cement, "I think Sam was just trying to say that only an idiot would come back to the restaurant where he met the man that he very, very recently tried to _kill_."

"I suppose that's fair," said the woman, shrugging.

The older man lowered his binoculars and glared at the woman. "Of course it is, being that it's what I _said_, Fiona!"

"No, it's not, Sam." she said slowly. "There is clearly a distinction between what-"

"Can we not do this and get some work done, please? We need to work. Let's work." The voice the man spoke in seemed to imply that he was used to the conflict and was offering (or perhaps commanding) an alternative.

The older man, now dressed in a black business suit rather than the relaxed tourist wear of the previous outing yet still equipped with the same pair of sunglasses resting on his forehead, rolled his eyes. The woman, just as sharply dressed, ignored him. It was difficult to discern whether the two were in the middle of genuine turmoil or were merely putting on and did it out of a perverse enjoyment of annoying their mutual friend. Regardless, they ceased their bickering and focused their attention on the job at hand.

"Heeey," said the younger man in the Armani suit, checking a pricey-looking watch. "It's time. I'm still not sure whether he's looked into us and gotten your names and faces," he said, gesturing for the binoculars from his friend, "but judging by the perpetually blank look on his face and the _stunning_ genius he's displayed so far..." (Marcello could be seen sitting at a small round table outside of the cafe, hitting on an attractive waitress and undoubtedly making crude advances that were ended promptly when said waitress none-too-gently stomped on his foot) "...I, uh, I don't think that it'll be much of a problem."

"Rest assured, Mikey" said the older man through a mischievous smile, patting the outside of his jacket in reference to the concealed weapon tucked within, "It won't be a problem either way."

For once, the woman agreed. "If anything unexpected happens, we'll just have to switch things up a little."

"How about we just hope that there aren't any surprises waiting around, all right?"

"Fine, Mikey. Fine."

"Whatever you say, Michael."


	5. Chapter 5

Marcello Suslov sat at his lonely round table, sipping his cafecito and barely touching his small meal, instead glancing every so often over the newspaper he was pretending to read to eye the attractive women scattered around the café. He had chosen to spend his time relaxing for a few moments just after meeting up with an associate and discussing a deal that was to take place later in the day. The associate had paid for Marcello's meal then had left abruptly, and Marcello was planning to spend some time enjoying the view and not letting any free food go to waste.

He was so relaxed and spent so much of his concentration on the women, in fact, that he never paid the necessary amount of attention to his surroundings to notice that the man in the aviator sunglasses at a nearby table even existed. He didn't notice man get up from that table and approach, either.

He did become aware of the man, however, when he heard a woefully familiar voice carry across the outdoor restaurant setup and call out to him.

"Mar-ceeeeell-ooo~!"

Marcello froze.

"Friend! Com_pan_ion! Heeeey, man!"

The man approached quickly from behind, clapped a hand down on Marcello's shoulder, and held it and Marcello there stiffly in an unyielding iron grip.

"We spoke on the phone yesterday! Remember?"

The frightened man nodded in response and began to reach for the cell phone that resided in his pocket. The grip on his shoulder was tightened severely in response and he ceased the endeavor immediately.

The man let go and casually sat down opposite his 'friend' then reached a hand across the table to take a sip of Marcello's coffee, using the motion to reveal a firearm concealed within his jacket. Marcello glanced at the gun, but said nothing.

"Nice! Really nice stuff right there. Oh, but, hey, enough of that. Down to business. I have a favor to do for you, Marcello."

"A favor?" asked Marcello, wondering just how unhinged this man was.

"You tried to kill me. You know what you guys say, right? 'Return the favor?'"

"Look, man, all of that was out of my hands," said Marcello. He tried to keep his voice steady and his fear hidden, but his eyes were wide and his brow was beginning to sweat.

From a few dozen feet behind Marcello came a voice.

"Excuse me! Excuse me, coming through, let me just, ah..."

Marcello and the man sitting at his table turned toward the sudden intrusion on the café scene. Two individuals, one a tall older man in black sunglasses and the other a slender woman, both dressed impeccably in somewhat formal business attire, were swiftly threading their way through the tables and their occupants.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation members here, folks. Very serious business. Excuse me! Oh, haha, sorry, ma'am, let me just, uh..."

Marcello stared blankly and the man with him shrugged his shoulders. Marcello then realized with the mixed emotions of relief and apprehension that the two were coming toward him. The two stopped in front of his table, between himself and the other man.

"Marcello Suslov?" asked the man in black.

"Uh, well, yes. That's me."

"Sir, my name is Chuck Finley," said the stranger, whipping out a very official-looking and realistic badge. "I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We're concerned with certain aspects of your past, present, and future, well, shall we say, _business deals, _and would like to bring you in for questioning. Or, ah...,"

The man at the table smiled genially up at his undercover partner, but successfully played the look off as one of a deranged ex-spy about to enact murderous revenge trying to avoid suspicion and pacify an officer of the law. The look made Marcello intensely uncomfortable and seemed to have no outward effect on the 'officers.'

"...Mr. Suslov, you could continue your conversation if this is a bad time. We had some difficulties ascertaining your whereabouts, and once we found you, we, ah, well, we figured it would be best not to miss the opportunity. We're here for an informal chat, if you will, not to place you under arrest or to take you into custody or anything like that. We've got a car parked just around the corner, and would be happy to escort you to somewhere a little more private."

"You don't wanna go anywhere, do you, Marcello?" asked the man across from him, taking another sip of the coffee then setting it down somewhat forcefully with a sharp and threatening _thunk_. Marcello looked desperately around in confusion and for support, and his eyes were met only with those of rubbernecking onlookers made up of the café's varied customers and staff.

A particularly unique set of customers sat just two tables down from the bizarre event transpiring before them. One looked on with a raised eyebrow and an air of concentration, ignoring his food, and one ignored the event completely and happily (and obliviously) went on consuming his dessert.

The one paying rapt attention frowned deeply over his Cuban cuisine. "Gus, this is getting weird."

"Hmm?" asked Gus, glancing up from his dulce de leche.

"There's some foreign dude over there being shaken down by an old dude, a hot chick, and a guy with some seriously cool shades."

"Really?"

Shawn sighed and stared at Gus a moment before saying in his most dreary and deadpan voice, "No, no, Gus. No. No. I- Gus, I'm just so desperate for attention that I, that I just concoct stupid and whimsical-"

"You don't have to be such an ass, Shawn. And don't pretend that you've never made up-"

"Actually...," interrupted Shawn after rolling his eyes and swallowing his bite of sandwich, "the two in the suits are pretending to be, like, CIA or FBI or something."

"Pretending?"

"Yeah. They know the other guy, the guy who's sitting with the, the, uh, foreign... guy. A guy who, if I may say so, is looking pretty shaken up. This could be bad news, Gus."

"You're real creepy sometimes, Shawn."

"Just some acute hearing and a penchant for reading people, Gus. Nothing creepy about it. Now, if I were to, say, pass this simple information onto you via an eerily lifelike ventriloquist's dummy or the sort, you could feel free to consider that creepy."

Gus raised his eyebrows.

"Anyway! The man's name is, uh, Michael, the foreign dude is Marcellus or Marcello... something... and the big dude who's laying it on a little thick's name is Chuck Finley. Well, it's probably not _actually_ Chuck Finley. That's one hell of a cool name, though! If his name really _does_ happen to be Chuck Finley, why, I know that I for one am getting an autog-"

"Shawn!"

"Well, uh, regardless, the little Marcello dude looks rather frightened, and the other three may quite possibly be packing heat. Quite the tricky situation, if I do say so myself."

"I think we should take that fact as our cue to get out of here, Shawn."

"No _way_, Gus! Men on the run can only get so far without cash, man, and Marcello looks loaded! I think I should intervene."

"Intervene?"

"Are you going to question everything I say, Gus? Is that your new shtick or something? Your new _thing_? Because, man, if it is, I have to say that-"

"As long as everything that comes out of your mouth is completely ridiculous, Shawn, I think that I have the right to-"

"Fine, Gus! You pay the bill."

"I thought you said we were just gonna skip out!"

"I said no such thing."

"You told me two minutes ago that it would 'exponentially increase our criminal infamy'._ Exact _words, Shawn!"

"Oh, that. Hmm. Yes. Well, that's irrelevant! I changed my mind. So there. See you in a second, Gus."

Before his friend could utter another word, either of protest or of some sort of scathingly sarcastic comeback, Shawn Spencer got up from his table and walked towards the escalating action taking place in front of him. He sauntered slowly, glancing alternately around at tables and at waiters and waitresses, looking for a chance to enact his plan before things moved beyond his control.

By now, all of the other table's occupants were standing, with the frightened Marcello backing up slowly and forming a triangle between himself and the two bodies wishing to apprehend him. Shawn happened to look up and to the left and smiled after catching the perfect opportunity. He approached the group from behind and slightly to the right of Marcello, and when he was close enough, performed a faux-trip, swinging one leg and one arm out as if in an attempt to regain his balance. He then swung his left hand around in order to knock a serving of flan from a passing waitress's tray onto the ground. He then carried his momentum forward, planted his right foot in the flan, and slipped dramatically in-between Marcello and his momentary captors, tightly grabbing Michael's pants leg and the other man's jacket as if to steady himself as he did so and gripping both for several seconds longer than was necessary.

The small incident was more than enough of a distraction; without so much as a word of thanks, Marcello practically flew away and back through the restaurant, most likely emerging on the building's opposite side and disappearing into the vast network of Miami streets.

"Oh! Oh, man! Sorry, guys. I'm not sure what happened there. Real sorry..."

After glancing back at the restaurant for several seconds, Michael rested a hand on his forehead and sighed. "And he is _gone_. Fantastic. Fan_tas_tic!"

After regaining his balance and standing, Shawn took a step back and put one hand on the back of his neck in a display of mock-embarrassment. "You know, there was this special on _60 Minutes _or something I caught a couple years back on the varied dangers of caramel custards. I laughed then, but, boy, do I sincerely regret not taking it seriously. I was a fool, guys, and you paid for it with... well, with whatever just happened. For that, I beg for your forgiveness."

The three turned and glared at Shawn suspiciously for a moment, but then seemed to dismiss him as an idiot and non-threat. That, or perhaps they felt that there were more pressing matters at hand.

Michael sighed again and ran a hand through his hair then glanced back at Shawn. "No problem, uh..."

Shawn smiled and stared at the three blankly.

"Okay! Well, we've got plenty of other leads to go on, no great loss, so, uh, guys, well, back to the Loft, I, uh, I guess."

The taller man shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

The woman nodded.

Shawn smiled brightly and lazily waved goodbye, a combination which on some level was somewhat eerie. The three others turned and walked back through the tables with a slight lingering air of disappointment without bothering to return the wave or to even again acknowledge Shawn.

Shawn returned to his table, his face still showing the blazing smile.

"Smooth, or what, man? Was that _smooooth_, or _what_?"

"You're havin' way too much fun with this, Shawn!"

"Not yet!" said Shawn, now grinning so wide as to flash his teeth.

"Huh?"

"Earlier I heard the little guy talking to this big, rough creepy guy about something going down at a warehouse later today. Mike over there was within range to hear it, too. I'm guessing that that's the lead they had, well, at least one of their leads, and from what I understand the place shouldn't be too hard to find."

"Shawn! No. No. _Noooo_. No way!"

Shawn shrugged. "Suit yourself, Gus! You were right about me having a great time, and seeing as how I have the keys to your company car right in my pocket here, I could run off and take that beautiful blue vehicle out for a spin or two, having all sorts of fun on my own. Fun which may or may not involve that car meeting a fate similar to Lassiter's, of course..."

Gus furrowed his brow and frowned, eyeing Shawn's pocket. Shawn tilted his head forward and raised his eyebrows, giving Gus a look. After a moment of contemplation, Gus finally blinked, shook his head, and let out a long sigh.

"Fine, Shawn, fine," he said, setting his fork down and pushing his plate forward, "but _you_ have to foot the bill."

Shawn shrugged. "I told you earlier, man! We can just skip out."


	6. Chapter 6

"The hell kind of a name is Marcello Suslov, anyway?" asked the driver as he pulled the Charger up outside of a nondescript warehouse. He put the car in park. "I knew a Marcello Martivini, and a Yuri Suslov, but not a-"

Michael interrupted in the interest of expedience. "Guess it's a nickname or something, Sam. If it's a cover", he said, pulling out a fat file, "then it sure as hell isn't a good one. It wasn't exactly hard to dig up some intel on the guy. Nothing surprising, of course. This one's about as easy to read as, uh..."

The woman smiled. "That file?"

"Sure, Fi."

"It's bothering me, though, Mike..."

"Really?" asked the woman, turning to fully face the man next to her. "I thought that Michael's explanation was more than sufficient. Then again, your thick-skulled and stubborn reliance on-"

"Hey, you hold on just a-"

"Ready, guys?" asked Michael, ignoring the bickering and opening his car door to signal to his friends to stop fooling around.

"Sure, Mikey. Sure," said the man in the front as he reached under his seat and retrieved an impressive shotgun.

The three exited the car, with Michael slightly in the lead and the other two following. The FBI getup had been abandoned in favor of a more naturalistic approach, with Michael in his prized suit and sunglasses and his companions in a Hawaiian shirt and sundress respectively.

The man 'accidentally' bumped into the woman, who 'inadvertently' whacked him in the back of his knee with her automatic. He retaliated by tripping up her foot without meaning to, and she calmly readied her gun to butt him in the back of the head when Michael realized what was going on and stopped walking. He turned around and shot his friends a frigid glare, one which they responded to by finally stopping their fighting.

The older man cocked his shotgun.

"Shock and awe, Mikey."

Michael smiled despite his aggravation.

"Yeah, yeah..."

Fiona pulled out and clicked the detonator, setting off several blasts around the building's perimeter. She followed it up by letting some bullets rip into the few windows the dilapidated building had that weren't already shattered.

The beams groaned and several clouds of smoke drifted up from the base of the old warehouse.

"I think we'd better hurry in before the whole damn thing falls straight to the ground," said the older man looking up at the building.

Michael nodded then kicked in the front door and entered, followed closely by his companions. Stunned gangsters lay scattered on the ground, clutching their bleeding ears. Michael, gun drawn and held in his right hand, strolled on through with one arm over his face in an attempt to avoid breathing in the smoke from the aftermath. Sam followed with a shotgun held loosely at his side, and Fiona behind him with a large automatic machine gun held lovingly in her arms.

"Marcello?"

The only response came in the form of groans scattered amongst the quiet sounds of dust settling and parts of the blasted wall falling to the ground.

"Marcellooo? No? No Marcello? I thought for sure he'd be here!" Michael kicked the ground and looked around. "Don't worry, you guys. The wounds should all be superficial. We're just here to pick up an acquaintance. We've got nothing against you all. We just want to know where Marcello Suslov is, then we'll be right on our way, alright?"

A man slumped against the wall seemed to try to say something, coughed, and pointed a bloodied arm to the right, towards a billiards table obscured by smoke.

Michael indicated to his partners to be quiet. They walked over to the table and all paused for a moment. Michael then suddenly kicked it over. Underneath it was, of course, Marcello, cowering and staring at the three, wide-eyed and horrified.

Michael smiled down at him genially.

"Marcello, man, you sounded a little freaked out at the café. We just wanted to make sure things were still cool between us. We're friends, right? Friends who would never send cars full of thugs after each other, right? They'd never, ever skip out on a lunch date, right?"

Marcello merely stared, mouth agape and countenance shocked at how deranged Westen seemed to have become.

"Oh, hey, by the way, these are my other pals, my real pals, pals who don't make me upset. They're Chuck and Fiona. Chuck, Marcello, Fiona, Marcello, Marcello-"

Marcello found his voice, though it shook with terror.

"Oh, man, please, don't kill me, I-"

The older man frowned and felt that he had to interrupt. "Hey, Marcello, quick question- is that your real name? Or is it, like, a nickname or, or a-"

"Who the hell are you people? I just did what I was told, Westen, I, I don't want no-"

"Do I need to break your fingers, Marcello?" asked Michael, playing it up.

"Yeah, okay, it's a nickname! I thought that it sounded cool, man! I'm nobody!"

"Not about that, you idiot!"

"What?"

"We were gonna help you, Marcello."

"Or, uh, whoever you are," said the other man, rubbing his chin contemplatively.

Michael waved his hand around, indicating the plethora of gangsters that littered the rubble,all of them either unconscious or moaning.

"We were gonna get you out of this."

Marcello shook his head fervently. "You're better than this, Marcello!" said Michael, now with a pleading expression on his face.

"Look, Westen, you guys ain't supposed to be into this revenge crap! I've, I've heard stories, man. You're supposed to be a buncha nice guys! I didn't think you'd come after me, not like this! What I did, I, I got sources, Westen, I knew it wouldn't kill you, I was just following orders, man, and I never thought that you'd-"

Michael threw back his head and laughed. He'd decided earlier to go with the unbalanced ex-spy gig, a role he unsurprisingly had took little effort to slip into.

Without warning, the woman took a syringe out of her purse and jabbed Marcello in the neck. He stared at her for a moment with an expression of pained shock on his features then slumped to the ground. The two men dragged him out the back door of the warehouse and around, leaving him next to their car. After he had been securely bound with duct tape, they deposited him in the trunk.

Roughly forty feet away sat a blue Toyota Echo hatchback parked somewhat conspicuously on a hill. It had been parked there since the group had entered the building, and its inhabitants had witnessed the entire event as it had transpired.

"Holy Hell!" said Shawn, turning toward the Charger with his binoculars and watching Marcello get dumped in the car. "What heinous haphazard hoodwinkery-"

"This is no time for alliterations, Shawn! What just happened?"

"Some tiny, tiny lady just knocked out and dragged a big dude into a Charger!"

Gus gestured to Shawn's binoculars. "Where'd you get those?"

Still looking through the scopes, Shawn shook his head. "Where do you think?"

"Oh, okay, so not only is Lassiter gonna kill us, but your d-"

"Wait, where'd she go?"

"Who?"

"The lady! Chuck's partner from the café! She shoved the guy into the car, circled around to the driver's seat, and I thought she got in, but the-"

There was a knock at the passenger window of the small blue car. Both men jumped and turned. Fiona leaned down, her head directly in front of the window, waving a handgun flippantly back and forth. She gestured for the men to roll down their windows down. Gus shook his head from side to side and Shawn shrugged and smiled.

"Hello, boys."

"Hello there!" said Shawn, waving with his hand that held the binoculars, realizing what he was doing, and quickly attempting to hide them by throwing them in the back seat.

"What are those for?" asked the woman conversationally through the glass, gesturing down toward them.

"What are what for?" asked Shawn. She tilted her head to the side and frowned.

"Oh, the sombrero and DVDs? Oh, haha, well, we were going to have a fiesta. I mean, we were on our way, but the car broke down right here, and-"

She shook her head. "The binoculars."

"Aha, ah, those silly things! Sightseeing!" said Shawn.

"Sightseeing?" she asked, still frowning.

"We broke down, and after I got bored playing tic tac toe, well, because, you see, my friend here is truly awful at it, no challenge in the game at all, so, well, _sightseeing_. That is my story and I am stickin' to it, ma'am."

The older man, impatient, ambled up, lifting up his black sunglasses and shaking his head.

"Fiona, what're you doin'? We've gotta move!"

"Just a moment, Sam." she said, smiling, before busting through the back passenger side window window with her gun, reaching in, and retrieving the binoculars. Sam and Gus yelled in shock and both hysterically attempted to unlock their doors and escape, but Fiona raised her gun threateningly and prevented any exit.

"The hell're these yahoos?"

She shrugged. "No idea. They're the same_ yahoos _from the café, though. Michael isn't going to like this."

"Yahoos? I take offense to that misnomer, good sir! We are not just any yahoos. I am Hernando Concerto Cacahuete Rodriguez and this is my partner, T-Bone."

"Sure," said Fiona, before proffering the binoculars to the man. He took them and glanced through and about.

"Hey, these are nice!"

From his Charger several yards away, Michael could see his friend adjusting the binoculars, his other friend sticking her head in the window and chatting it up, and Gus desperately attempting to get as far away from her as possible in his tiny car. Michael could also see that the building they'd kidnapped a man from was starting to awake and miss its former occupant- lights were turning on and people were moving about, alarmed. They had to get back to the loft, and quickly. After several seconds he felt were several seconds too many for whatever the hell his friends were doing, Michael got out of his car and ran up to see what was going on.

"Sam! Fiona! What the hell's going on?"

Fiona gestured to the Echo and its inhabitants.

"These guys can't be here!" said Michael, clearly agitated. He pursed his lips, glanced back at his car, looked in the distance towards the planned meeting place, looked at his watch, then yelled, "Out of the car!"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Look. guys, if you think that we're going to be intimidated by kidnapping ring made up of Twiggy, an over-the-hill Patrick Warburton, and, uh, ah, and, and some guy with overpriced sunglasses and a curiously shaped head..."

Michael frowned.

"I like the shape of your head, Mike..." said Sam, doing all he could to hold back a laugh.

Michael sighed. "Well, Mr. Rodriguez-"

"Senor!"

"Senor Rodriguez, see, we've got a problem. We're not a kidnapping ring."

"Ha, well, that's funny, because my friend T-Bone here is actually a petite Asian woman, and I-"

"We're not kidnappers, Mister, ah..." Michael motioned for Fiona. She smiled, produced two wallets, and handed them over.

"Mister... Spencer! And a one Burton Guster. Psychic detectives. How cute!" He pocketed the wallets despite protests from the two. "Anyway, guys, we're in the middle of a _very_ delicate operation and at risk of an entire compound coming to through the haze and being on our asses and really, _really_ need to move. Since we can't just leave you here as witnesses, I guess you're coming with us."

"Can't we talk this over, amigos?" asked Shawn, nervously eying the various weaponry in the hands of the three that had his partner and himself surrounded.

"I'm afraid not. See, guys, there's a time and place for everything. So, the time is later, and the place is, well, back at my place. Then we'll have all the time in the world to figure out why you two were tailing us three and why you pulled what you did back at Café Cubano. Right now, though, we're gonna borrow your car so that the folks here are going to have twice as hard a job tailing us."

Michael ran back to the Charger, drove it up alongside the Echo, and transferred the unconscious dealer over before buckling himself in in, playfully saluting his friends, and driving off.

Sam gestured for Shawn to unlock his door. Shawn shook his head. Sam narrowed his eyes.

"Why don't you just let us chill out and take our chances here? I mean, you sure you wanna be carrying two potentially two lethal threats along with you? For all you know, we're deadly mercenaries who could murder you with a mere thought, man. A _thought_. Think about that."

"Haha, good one!" laughed Sam. "_Now get out_."

"Fine, fine.."

"Hey, Fiona, you have any of that, uh, that-"

"Yes, Sam."

"Good."

Fiona produced another syringe.

"Lights out," said Sam, smiling.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam leaned his shotgun against a chair, sat down, and took a swig from a chilled bottled beer.

"I know you're awake," he said, staring at Shawn. Shawn was seated in front of him, head tilted back and mouth agape, snoring in a ridiculously over-the-top and clearly fake manner.

Shawn stopped and frowned, his head in the same position. "No, you don't."

Sam smiled.

"I do now."

Shawn opened his eyes and looked around. He was seated in and bound to a chair with Sam situated just a few feet in front of him, facing him. Directly behind Shawn was a set of black metallic stairs, and he was imprisoned in what he figured was some sort of cheaply built loft within the bowels of the city.

"Gus?" asked Shawn, realizing that he couldn't see his partner.

"Right here, Shawn..."

Gus was seated behind Shawn, facing away from him with his back against the opposite railing. Much to Gus's horror, Fiona sat facing him, watching him through a pair of bug-eye sunglasses as she cradled an impressive and very much deadly-looking machine gun, a gun that fit her style but was perhaps overkill given the current situation.

"Marcello?"

Sam leaned back in his chair. "He's not here right now."

"Oh?" asked Shawn, his curiosity piqued.

"Well, Shawn," said Sam, gesticulating with his beer as he spoke, "Marcello is a liability. When compared to a fake psychic detective and a pharmaceuticals salesman, a known criminal and general menace to society requires a different kind of security and a different type of, uh, type of _coercion_."

Gus narrowed his eyes. "How'd you figure all that out about us so fast?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, given that you both had plenty of perfectly valid IDs in your wallets, it didn't take very long to find out everything we needed."

"We just did a little research," said Fiona, smiling dangerously.

"You mean you googled us?" asked Shawn, his uncontrollable urge to make smartass quips overcoming whatever fear he had regarding his current predicament.

"Oh, no, Sam, they're onto is!" said Fiona, laughing.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Your site was cute, by the way; certainly some, uh, _unique_ web design goin' on there. You two're actually a really smart couple of kids. But the one thing we couldn't figure out when we did that background check-"

"Web search, you mean." said Shawn.

Sam ignored him.

"We just couldn't figure out why two faux-detectives from California were not only all the way down here, but were also nosing around in our business. Nosing around where they had no place, if you don't mind me saying."

"We're here to save someone's life," said Shawn, his taste for the dramatic evident.

"Marcello's?" asked Fiona, curious.

"No, no," said Shawn. He then paused. "Well, once or twice, but our previous encounters were merely coincidences, nothing but the offspring of the whimsy of fate; you all simply sidetracked us from our true mission."

"Really?" said Sam, leaning forward. "This oughtta be good."

"I'll be honest," said Shawn, looking gravely serious, "being that this situation leaves me no other recourse. Gus and I came to Miami in attempt to rescue our mutual friend, Detective Carlton Lassiter. You probably saw his photo on some of the online Santa Barbara papers detailing our recent crime spree."

Sam nodded.

"Anyway, several surreptitious attempts have been made on Lassiter's life, but he's too proud to see them for what they are or do anything to protect himself. To put it bluntly, we figured that if we could piss him off, he'd follow us here and out of danger's way long enough for us to talk some sense into him. Somehow, we ended up here. Oh, and, and for some reason, Gus is absolutely terrified of you, Mrs. Fiona. Just throwing that out there."

"Shawn!"

"I told them I would be honest, Gus, and as they say, sometimes the truth hurts. Plus, it's, uh, you have to admit that it's pretty funny..."

"Dammit, Shawn!"

"I think it's cute," said Fiona, grinning.

"Haha, yeah, cute." said Sam. He rubbed his chin contemplatively, then continued. "Your story does seem to check out now that I think about it, however weird it and you two are."

Shawn's countenance brightened. "So does that mean that we can, y'know, leave?"

"No." said Sam, getting up and heading back around the stairs toward the kitchen.

"What?" asked Shawn, surprised at just how quickly his perceived chance at escape had been struck down.

"Michael's the leader here, obviously." said Fiona, answering for Sam. "He's currently busy elsewhere with Marcello taking his time to, ah, discern Marcello's motives. When he gets back, we'll figure out what to do with you two. Who knows? Perhaps we could end up helping each other."

"I doubt that." said Gus bitterly.

"Excuse me?" asked Fiona.

"Nothing." said Gus.

"Anyone want a yogurt?" asked Sam from the kitchen.

"Would you happen to have one of the pineapple variety?" asked Shawn, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the refrigerator.

"You're the psychic." said Sam, looking into the fridge.

Shawn shot him a glare.

"Either way, though, sadly, no. Blueberry okay?"

Shawn sighed.

"No thank you, sir."

"Suit yourself," said Sam, grabbing another beer and popping the cap off. "If you change your mind, just tell me. You two are going to be here for a while."

Shawn leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. Gus hoped that Shawn was coming up with something that would expedite their escape. Shawn hoped to take a nap.


	8. Chapter 8

Marcello awoke confused. He was surrounded by darkness and movement and simultaneously unable to move himself. After experiencing a few unpleasant moments and a few potholes, he came to the realization that he was trapped in Michael Westen's trunk and had the pleasure of experiencing sharp turns and sudden stops while crammed helplessly in almost total darkness; the only light afforded him came from the car's tail and brake lights. After what seemed like an eternity, Marcello felt the car slow down and come to a halt. He then felt Westen get out of the car, heard him slam the car door, and turned when he heard the key inserted into the trunk lock. As the trunk opened, Marcello looked up and saw Westen, backed by bright light in contrast to the dark trunk interior.

He would have shielded his eyes from the light if they hadn't been secured behind his back.

"Awake already?" asked Michael, peering down from the bright outside through his sunglasses.

Marcello, still groggy, didn't bother to respond.

"Doesn't matter." said Westen, hooking an arm under one of Marcello's and dragging him out of the trunk. "We've got plenty of time here to talk." He slammed the trunk shut.

Marcello looked around and came to the conclusion that he was in one of Miami's many old, abandoned buildings. Light filtered in through broken windows and holes in the ceiling to land scattered on the dirty, dust-encrusted floor, and standing in the middle of the gritty cement floor just a few feet from the car's trunk was a metallic chair. Westen shoved Marcello into it, took out his gun, and sat down on the back end of his Charger.

Marcello looked around again, noting a few more details of the place, then finally glanced down at his feet and smiled.

"Something, uh... funny?" asked Michael, arms crossed, also glancing down at Marcello's shoes.

"Ah, ah, nothin'." said Marcello, still smiling. "I'm still a lil' groggy from whatever your girlfriend shot me up with, is all."

"Understandable." said Michael, now smiling too. For some reason, Marcello had dropped his accent. Michael figured he would bring it up later. He'd try some other tactics first.

"Your guys were good, Marcello." he said. "Even though I had a nice head start, it took me quite a while to lose that tail."

"Well," said Marcello, shrugging his shoulders, "It seems that they weren't good enough."

Westen laughed. "It does seem that way, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, well..." said Marcello, leaning back a little in an effort to get more comfortable, "things aren't always as they seem, are they?"

"Hm?"

"You, Westen. You seemed like a nice side project for what we had going and not at all like a crazed stalker who wasn't gonna let me go no matter how much damage you had to do in the process. When we dropped you when something more important to my people came up, it didn't seem like you were going to behave like a friggin' lunatic! You should have left us alone, Westen!"

Michael narrowed his eyes and began to speak, but Marcello interrupted him.

"And I know that from the beginning I may have seemed like some foreign lackey brought in to screw you over."

"That _is_ what I assumed."

"Well! You know what assuming does, right?"

Michael was silent.

"Haha, it lands you in a dilapidated and easily surrounded warehouse with a crime boss with a tracking device in his shoe."

Michael stood up, glancing around the warehouse, trying to discern whether he was in real danger or if he had simply caught a nut with delusions of grandeur.

"Relax! Relax, Westen. Y'know, at first when you got in my way at the cafe, I was worried, man, real worried for our operation. And real pissed at you. But things ended up working out in both of our favors. We're gonna take you alive, Westen. Isn't that nice?"

Michael turned to each of the windows and could see vehicles pulling up. Not only had Marcello been telling the truth, but Westen had foolishly let his guard down.

"Don't look now." said Marcello, indicating Michael's midsection with a nod of his head. Michael glanced down and noticed a bright red dot of precision accuracy hovering on his chest.

"Drop the gun." said Marcello.

Michael sighed and dropped the gun.

"In about thirty seconds, Westen, _you're_ gonna be the one in the damn trunk."


	9. Chapter 9

Sam sat staring at his phone. Well, he sat in a relaxed pose with his phone on his thigh, glancing at it every few moments, almost imperceptibly. Almost_._ To Shawn, Sam may as well have been holding the cell pressed to his face, hitting 'redial' constantly and screaming Michael's name in frustration.

"Everything okay there, Samuel?" asked Shawn, his voice carrying a mock-curious tone.

"Just peachy." said Sam, smiling.

"Really?" asked Shawn.

Sam's smile tightened. "Really."

Gus noticed Fiona's index finger tapping on her machine gun. He misinterpreted her worry as a threatening gesture and sat transfixed, watching intently and nearly jumping at every sharp click. Fiona noticed that he was watching and ended with a concise tap.

Then the loft, apart from the low hum of electrical equipment and Miami's own white noise of occasional screams or gunshots, was in silence. Shawn, unable to endure the quiet, began to hum a title tune from an 80s television program. Sam recognized the song, but couldn't quite place it. Eventually, the humming began to drive Sam mad in its familiarity yet impossible-to-place nature. Just as Sam was on the verge of finally discerning the tune, there was a knocking upon the loft's door, and three clear raps broke his concentration. Shawn stopped humming.

Sam and Fiona stared at each other. They hadn't expected any visitors, and even then none of those who typically prowled around Michael's place fit the knock; a drunk or druggie wouldn't have rapped politely, and despite the explosions and chaos they'd caused over the past few days, they weren't expecting any cops. There was Michael himself, but Michael had a key and would have called to let them know he was okay before stepping in. He'd better have.

Sam bit his lip and moved a little to the left, hiding his shotgun behind the loft's stairs. Fiona raised her eyebrows slightly, staring at Sam. A few seconds of silence passed, followed by another three knocks on the loft door.

"Well, answer it!" said Sam. Fiona rolled her eyes, got up, deposited her own gun out of sight, retrieved a handgun, hid it on her person, and answered the door.

Shawn struggled to turn and see, then looked back toward Sam. Sam put a finger over his lips, then went into the kitchen and got a handgun out of a drawer. Despite being unable to see, Shawn could hear the voices from the door fairly clearly.

"Is this the residence of a one, ah... Michael Westen?"

The question was asked in an urgent yet businesslike male voice that Shawn and Gus both immediately recognized. It was a voice that, at that moment, made Shawn intensely nervous.

"Now, what would make you think that?" asked Fiona. She recognized the stranger just as well as Shawn did, but didn't show it.

"I'm in no mood for _games_, miss. I'm currently in the middle of a very serious countrywide investigation and I'd greatly appreciate it if you were to step aside and allow me to search the premises."

Fiona raised her eyebrows.

"Please?" asked a woman's voice. Another voice for Shawn and Gus to recognize. This was not good...

Fiona looked toward the man and ignored the girl. "How about I step outside so we can discuss this _further?_" she asked, one arm placed suggestively around her own waist and the other hanging loosely on the door frame.

"Excuse me?" was the only response she received, and it happened to be delivered in a very agitated tone.

Even from inside of the loft, Sam could tell that Fiona's typically killer flirty charm was having no effect whatsoever the stranger. The man outside clearly had something else on his mind, and Sam desperately hoped that Fiona could change it.

"If that's the case, we're busy at the moment. Do come back later."

Fiona moved to lock the man out, but the stranger put a foot in the door.

"I'll have to _insist_."

It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes; the guest was not nearly as easily deterred as he and Fiona had hoped. As if they didn't have enough to deal with! He unbuttoned his Hawaiian shirt, picked up a beer, and swaggered over to the door, doing his best to block any view of the inside when he arrived. He then downed the remainder of the beer, crudely wiped across his mouth with a wrist, and put an arm around Fiona.

"Wha's goin' on here? They messin' with you, baby? Huh?" He glared up at the man in front of him.

"As I explained, it's an investigation." said the stranger. "If we could just have a look inside..."

"Don'chu need a warrant or somethin'?" asked Sam, leaning forward and drunkenly leering at the blonde woman next to the detective. There were two of them. _Great._

The detective's nose twitched in disgust, and the woman to his side crossed her arms.

"Just let me-"

"_Nnnnn_o." said Sam, shaking his head. He then moved forward, opening the door further and forcing the male detective to move his foot in order to step back.

"Look," said the younger partner, doing her best to be polite, "Let's try again. I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara and this is Detective Carlton Lassiter. We'll only need a moment of your time. Promise!"

"You'n have a moment of my time anytime, hon," said Sam, before turning to Lassiter. "'Ey, you, sticks, I bet you ain't no cop. Hell, you don' even seem to be from 'round here. I bet you just came here 'cause you want Big Chuck's girl! Well, you can't have her! I tell you right now, Big Chuck ain't one to let some out-of-towner harass his lady, bud. So stop harrasin' her. Stop tryin' to get my lady!"

"Big Chuck?" asked O'Hara

"Damn straight, hot stuff!" After winking lecherously at her and causing her partner's face to contort in disgust, he turned toward Lassiter. "Now, _git_!"

"Look, _Chuck_, if you had any idea what I've been through, any idea of what you're doing, you big, disgusting, low-life drunkard scu-"

"He's scaring me, Big Chuck!" said Fiona, grabbing onto the front of Sam's shirt and sobbing into it.

"Get the hell outta here! Can't you see you're upsetting Big Chuck's lady? Damn!"

"That, that's ludicrous, we-" stammered Juliet, unsure of what to do.

"Come on back in, honey, Big Chuck'll make it all better..."

"We-"

Before they could react, Detectives Juliet and Lassiter had a door promptly slammed and locked in their face.

On the inside of the loft, Sam and Fiona felt that they could breathe easy, if only for the time being.

"Next time we pull that one, Sam, would you_ please refrain from_ fully unbuttoning your shirt?"

"It's called getting into character, Fiona. I'm sorry if my methods offended you."

"No, Sam, I believe it's known as _overacting._"

"Eeeveryone's a _critic_. You should just be happy we got out of that; they bought it, and that's what matters."

"How did they know where to find us?" asked Fiona as she placed the handgun on closest thing the kitchen had to a table. "We ditched that car quite some time ago."

"They embedded a very small tracking device in my lower vertebrae." answered Shawn, deadpan as ever. Sam and Fiona merely stared at him.

"Simple procedure, really. Anyway, that was impressive!"

"You think so?" asked Sam smugly, turning toward Fiona as he did so.

"Yes! You forgot one thing, though."

"And what would that be?" said Sam as he looked down and rebuttoned his shirt.

"Probable cause."

Sam paused a moment, then looked up from his buttons. "You don't-" he began before being interrupted by the loft's door being violently kicked in by the detective who apparently refused to take no for an answer.

There was a moment of chaos; a moment of yelling and of desperate grappling for guns.

Then Detective Carlton Lassiter finally came face-to-face with the man who somehow thus far avoided the swift retribution of justice for having dared violate his precious auto.

Shawn smiled meekly.

"Hey! Lassie! How you doin'?"


End file.
